


Anything for Baby

by justdk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 20:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16878837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/pseuds/justdk
Summary: “K!” He sets the spoon on the counter and runs over, sliding across the floor on his stocking feet.Kavinsky catches him and gives him a kiss. “Hey, babe.” He wraps Ilya in a hug, rubbing his chin against his boyfriend’s messy hair. “I’m home.”“Took you long enough!” Proko pinches his side. “I was worried you would miss Christmas.”“What? Miss Christmas with my Ilyusha? Never!”





	Anything for Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a holiday gift for a good friend <3
> 
> NSFWish (some off the page sex happens and is referenced)
> 
> This is set as a side story for an AU I’ve been writing (and haven’t updated in forever because I’m trash). Basic concept: Baby Driver but Kavinsky is the driver and Proko is the waiter he falls in love with. (FYI the AU is from Proko’s POV but this story is from Kavinsky’s)

Ilya Prokopenko is full of surprises. When Kavinsky had first met him Proko was in a real bad place and he didn’t have much joy in his life or in his soul. It had taken… a lot… to get him to where he is now.

Now he’s slow dancing around Kavinsky’s kitchen, crooning “Santa Baby,” and making lasagna. From scratch. These are two of his surprise perks: the boy can sing _and_ cook. He can also dance, and not just dirty club dancing on the weekends. Through some very loving coercion Kavinsky had learned that Ilya had done ballroom dancing growing up. He and his sister had even won competitions. That was before his life had gone off the rails. Right now he’s doing a slow dance around the kitchen, a sauce-covered spoon held to his lips while he sings.

_Santa baby, forgot to mention one thing, a ring / I don’t mean on the phone…_

Kavinsky sets his gift down in the entryway, saving the surprise for later. He takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and smoothes his hair into place. They’ve been together for about a year now but he still likes to watch Ilya’s eyes light up when he sees him.

_Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight…_

The song draws to a close and Proko strikes a pose, dipping his imaginary partner. Kavinsky does a slow clap, startling Proko out of his little daydream.

“K!” He sets the spoon on the counter and runs over, sliding across the floor on his stocking feet.

Kavinsky catches him and gives him a kiss. “Hey, babe.” He wraps Ilya in a hug, rubbing his chin against his boyfriend’s messy hair. “I’m home.”

“Took you long enough!” Proko pinches his side. “I was worried you would miss Christmas.”

“What? Miss Christmas with my Ilyusha? Never!”

Proko blushes and shoves his palm over Kavinsky’s mouth. “Don’t do that! You sound like my grandmother.”

“Your grandma sounds like a sleazy Jersey fuckboy?” Kavinsky teases. He kisses Proko again, lingering. He runs his fingers through Proko’s fine hair. _Fuck. He’s missed this._

The timer in the kitchen goes off, interrupting their moment, and Ilya breaks away, skidding back to the kitchen.

“Garlic knots are done!” He yells. “And there’s wine. I may have had a _little_ already.”

Kavinsky smirks. He had tasted the wine when they kissed, as well as the marinara sauce that Proko made.

The music has changed from Eartha Kitt to Mariah Carey and now to Dean Martin, all cozy Christmas classics. For the first time in his life Kavinsky can appreciate them, maybe because Proko clearly loves them, maybe because now he finally has someone in his life to share the holidays with.

“Did you make a new playlist?” he asks. He joins Proko in the kitchen, pulling up a barstool and taking a seat. Proko passes him the basket of garlic knots.

“Mhmm. All the oldies. Is it weird that they make me nostalgic? I wasn’t alive when they came out but I don’t know… feels like they’re a part of me anyways.” He sings softly with Dean Martin about snow and Christmas time.

“Too bad we don’t get snow here,” Kavinsky nods out the window. The city skyline glows before them, not a flake to be seen.

“Ha! I don’t miss the snow or the cold. I can be nostalgic snuggled up here with you just fine.” Proko takes a sip of wine and pours Kavinsky a glass. “Which reminds me, how was California?”

“Exciting.” Ilya comes around the counter and slides between Kavinsky’s legs, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Tell me all about it, baby,” Proko says, his voice low and breathy.

So Kavinsky does. He spins a tale about a string of heists, reckless driving, narrow escapes, crashing in luxurious penthouses and deadbeat roadhouses. He talks about his partners, all of them pros, a motley mix of eccentrics and geniuses. A one and done score filled with danger, tension, camaraderie. The best of times set against a background of palm trees, beaches, city, and desert. It’s what he does best, driving, especially getaway driving.

Proko moves from between his legs to straddling his lap, arms looped around his neck. He follows the story, asking questions and exclaiming over close calls, laughing at the second-hand jokes.

“You’re so amazing,” he remarks once Kavinsky’s wrapped up his story. Proko tucks a strand of Kavinsky’s hair back into place and touches his face. “My gangster boyfriend.”

Kavinsky takes Proko’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm. “Driver, love, not gangster. I only _transport_ the gangsters.”

Proko rolls his eyes. “If you say so. You’re still sexy as fuck.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” They kiss again, with feeling. Proko’s hands fist in his shirt and Kavinsky’s hands slide under his boyfriend’s sweater, running up his back. The time spent apart comes rushing back, making him ache for more. He moves one hand down to grab Ilya’s ass, squeezing. Ilya bites his lip and presses forward, hips grinding against Kavinsky’s.

“I missed you.” Proko’s voice is low, sultry. His lips brush Kavinsky’s ear. “All those times we talked on the phone and video chatted,” his breath is hot, his lips hotter, “it wasn’t enough, baby. I got so worked up, missing you.”

“Whaddya do about it?” Kavinsky asks. He already knows but he likes to hear Ilya describe it. His boyfriend has a dirty mouth and he’s deliciously nasty when he wants to be.

Proko doesn’t disappoint him, giving Kavinsky all the explicit details of his “self-care.” It’s an arousing retelling. Kavinsky eyes the timer to see how much time they have before the lasagna’s done; enough time for a quickie to tide them over, at least until dessert.

—–

“This counter is so great,” Kavinsky pants. He zips up and gets down on one knee to retrieve Proko’s pants.

Proko laughs and cups Kavinsky’s chin in his palm, rubbing his thumb over Kavinsky’s lips. “It certainly doesn’t get that sort of action while you’re gone.”

“Right? We gotta take advantage. I know how much you love being in the kitchen.” He kisses Proko’s hip before hoisting his pants back into place.

“I do,” Proko agrees. Kavinsky stands and pulls Proko into another hug. He can’t get enough of him.

The timer sounds and Proko gets the lasagna out of the oven. It smells like a bit of Italian heaven, the cheese on top bubbly and the perfect amount of burnt.

They sit at the counter, eating and drinking, talking and laughing. The playlist continues to cycle through Christmas songs like “Little Saint Nick” and “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Kavinsky decides that they’ll buy a tree tomorrow, never mind that it’ll be Christmas Eve. The apartment doesn’t feel right without one.

After dinner there’s tiramisu and spiked coffee; Kavinsky’s so happy to be home with Proko that he nearly forgets the present. Actually, he did forget, but a loud yowl reminds him.

“What the fuck?” Proko startles, looking around. “Is that a… cat?!”

“Ha! Uhh… hold on.” Kavinsky hops up from the couch and strides quickly towards the entry where he left Proko’s surprise. The little kitten hisses when she sees him, back bowing up and her small tail puffed out.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Kavinsky murmurs. “Ya gotta be good for my boy.” He opens the cat carrier and gingerly lifts the tiny tabby out, holding her close to his chest.

“Alright, babe,” he calls to Proko, “I need you to close your eyes and hold out your hands. I got something for you.”

Proko snickers. “I wonder what it could be,” he says sarcastically. But he does as Kavinsky asks, an amused smile on his face.

Kavinsky places the kitten in Proko’s hands, feeling anxious and hopeful. A live animal is sort of a big deal. A kitten’s not a kid but it still feels like a serious commitment.

Proko opens his eyes and gasps softly. “Oh, K. Oh my god she? He?”

“She.”

“She’s adorable!” Proko cuddles the kitten up to his face and boops her nose with his. The kitten mews and bats her paw at Proko’s face. “Oh god!!! Look at these toe beans!” Proko is beside himself. “So soft. You’re just the softest, bestest, cutest baby,” he croons. “Where did you find her?” he asks.

“Hmm… I didn’t find her per se,” Kavinsky explains. “I may have  _accidentally_ dreamt her in LA.” Proko sits up and eyes the kitten. “She’s totally a normal cat, though! I was dreaming about you, about us. I know how lonely you get while I’m gone so I thought maybe if you had a little friend here it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“K.” Proko sets the kitten on his lap and reaches for Kavinsky, wrapping his hand around the back of his neck. “ _Thank you_.”

Persistent crying interrupts their kiss and the kitten uses its sharp claws to scale Proko’s chest, mewing for attention.

“Ah, darlin’, I bet you’re hungry.” Proko strokes the kitten’s fur, smiling down at it like it’s the best thing ever. “What does she eat? Please tell me you brought food and supplies.”

“Of course I did.” Kavinsky gets up and Proko follows him. There’s a bag from the pet store, stocked with kitten supplies. Proko selects a can of food and carries the kitten to the kitchen, murmuring sweet things to it.

“She needs a name,” Kavinsky says. “Maybe Kat Von D? Cause of her stripes and she's from LA?”

“Hmm.” Proko considers it. “Actually… don’t call me a sap, okay?”

“I can’t make any promises,” Kavinsky says. He squats down next to Proko, both of them entranced by the little kitten.

“I’m thinking of calling her Noel,” Proko says softly. “El for short. My little Christmas kitty.”

“Dude.” Kavinsky pulls Proko into a headlock and presses kisses all over him. “I fucking love you.”

Proko laughs happily and knocks Kavinsky over, crawling on top of him. “I love _you_ , Joseph Kavinsky.”

Before they can get up to anything Noel totters over, crying and climbing all over them. Kavinsky giggles when she rubs her furry little face under his chin.

“My image!” he wails, tears sliding down his face from laughing and smiling too hard.

“Oh yeah, you’re such a bad boy,” Proko teases. “Isn’t that right, Noel? He’s been so naughty this year, I think he needs to be punished.”

“Ilya! The kitten!” Kavinsky laughs, covering up Noel’s teeny ears.

Proko snorts. “I guess she’s not allowed in the bedroom then?”

Kavinsky holds up Noel. She really is cute but… “Not while I’m home.”

—–

That plan fails right off the bat. Kavinsky soon becomes accustomed to waking with Noel sleeping on him or Proko. He also becomes accustomed to sharing his boyfriend with a very needy kitten. Their apartment feels livelier and there’s never a dull moment (not that there were many before). In time Kavinsky comes to realize that Noel is as much a gift to himself as she is a present for Ilya. And now, when he comes home, he gets twice the welcome and love. It’s a damn good, wonderful life.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Noel was napping when K brought her home otherwise he would have been like "SURPRISE BITCH" and given her to Proko straight away. Kittens nap a lot. 2) I had an adorable kitten named Kat Von D. My roommate named her that because when she was born her stripes made her look like she had tattoos. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @dkafterdark


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